


lets lie together for the trust

by sinningjul (Julx3tte)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Forced Marriage, Hands, Mutual Pining, Pining, Vaginal Fingering, not really all that angsty i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28781922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julx3tte/pseuds/sinningjul
Summary: lady galatea-fraldarius manages the castle while her husband away. margrave gautier comes to visitau where glenn's arranged marriage passes down to felix. predictably, they find other lovers and keep appearances.promise it's soft and lovely!!!
Relationships: Background Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	lets lie together for the trust

**Author's Note:**

> its almost fire szn ; )

Ingrid Galatea-Fraldarius knew she shouldn’t be allowing this tonight. For one thing, Felix had scarcely been gone half a day. To entertain a guest, even such a close family friend, probably looked bad enough to the servants of Fraldarius Castle.

It was the thing Ingrid hated the most about nobility: keeping up with appearances, and with tradition. She was lucky that her husband knew enough about them to keep at least the most banal ones, and held a high enough position by the king’s side that he could ignore the rest.

Ingrid wasn’t so lucky when she was alone; the servants liked to gossip. She could imagine the shrill voices now, coming from the washroom and the kitchens:  _ Lady Fraldarius is entertaining Margrave Gautier tonight. Do you think he tells her about his latest escapades? I heard that he was last seen with a knight-tess out by the border _ .

When she asked about that particular rumor earlier, Sylvain just laughed. He hadn’t wrapped himself around her yet then. He was sprawled out on the small sofa in the guest room, shirt untucked, buttons undone, and boots half off of his feet while Ingrid leaned against the inside of the doorframe.

“Do you think,  _ Lady Fraldarius _ ,” he said, with an edge to his voice, an extra quarter second spitting out the F and whispering the last syllable of her name. “That I would have come if my mistress was so esteemed?”

Ingrid narrowed her eyes and pushed the flat of her back into the rough wood of the door frame until she could feel it scratch between her shoulder blades, catching barely on the gauges of her woolen sweater.

“I think, Margrave,” Ingrid retorted, pulling her hip back against the wooden frame too, so that she stood straight, with her chest pronounced. She took a deep breath before tilting her head to one side, letting her hair fall to the right side of her face and elongating her neckline. She didn’t miss the way Sylvain’s eyes snapped to the movement. “Had you a mistress at all you might not need to come here.” 

Sylvian hmph’ed and that was that, and he went back to stripping his clothes and stealing glances at her in silence. 

In the present moment, Sylvain’s fingers danced across the inside of Ingrid’s thigh. His breath was warm and rhythmic against the side of her neck, and his lips were pressed just barely behind her ear, daring her to say something so that he could reply and send another wave of shivers down her spine.

Ingrid refused. If he was going to be so brazen as to demand an audience now, she would play her part too: the faithful wife, defiant and adamantine. At least until he made her crumble.

This was the game they played. For the last few years Ingrid was happily married to Felix, as per the terms house Galatea set with house Fraldarius years ago. They attended state functions, arm in arm, kissed enough in public to give the appearance of a relationship, and retired together in their bedroom, and the sizable master bed. 

Ingrid simply invited Annette, their old friend from the war, over for tea each week and, if her husband wanted to catch up with the former general while Ingrid was disposed of with duty, it was no problem.

After all, she trusted her husband, and the three of them have known each other for nearly a decade. They’ve survived a war, too. 

The servants didn’t need to know why Ingrid never entered Felix’s study; that each time the other woman visits, Felix takes Annette against his desk, bent over sprawled papers with agricultural reports and battle formations and fucks her till the sun rises and Felix has to sneak back to their bedroom.

She’s never asked him about it.

In exchange, he plans a trip every few weeks away from the castle, or sends Ingrid in his stead on official business. Ingrid was a noble’s wife, but she was still  _ General Galatea-Fraldarius _ and fully capable of taking his responsibilities when needed.

That they took her close to Sylvain’s orbit, often a rendezvous on their way to the royal palace or on some military visit somewhere, was simply coincidence. He never asked either, and the few times the three of them were drunk enough to be in the same room and speak frankly about the situation, Dimitri plugged his ears and pretended  _ not _ to hear about how three of his most powerful nobles were engaged in a half decade of affairs and infidelity.

The only problem Ingrid had was, seeing Sylvian just a few times a month was scarcely enough. She and Felix were more like siblings than lovers, and she kept those matters away from him entirely. It left her body in a perpetual state of salacity, and of looking forward to her trysts with Sylvain far too much. 

Far  _ too _ much. It was obvious in the way her breath caught when Sylvain lazily pulled her into his arms, pulling her away from the door with one arm and latching it with the other. Still dressed in a loose wool sweater and a long, thin house skirt, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and drew her onto the bed so that they laid sideways.

She said nothing then, neither in support nor resistance, so Sylvain dared further, dipping his head down over the burn of her neck, blushing everything from her cheeks down to her chest. 

Sylvian grew out his beard in the winters; the scratchy sensation against her neck sent a tickle down her spine and Ingrid pressed her back against his chest, shoulder blades reclining against his strong chest. 

That was when she felt his hand trail down the side of her leg, pulling her skirt up to her shins till he could slip his fingertips past the hem. 

Sometimes Ingrid wondered how Sylvain found this whole arrangement. She was sure that he and Felix had had a conversation during the war. One morning she was tip-toeing around the pair awkwardly, and the next, Felix gave her a look, walked off, and she caught Sylvian slipping into her tent a night later. 

There was never time then to talk about it, except how not to get caught. In the years of peace since, there had been far too many responsibilities to gauge how to proceed. Instead, they made the most of their time and left it at that.

Ingrid was sure, though, that Sylvain felt the same sense of anticipation she did. She could feel him, cock pressed up just above the curve of her ass, hard and unmoving, save for the small twitches every time Sylvain’s lips passed against Ingrid’s skin.

Sylvain’s hand touched the bare skin of her calf, underneath her skirts, and the heat that Ingrid had kept clamped down and fastened broke out of the box she constructed in between their visits. Just a few weeks ago he touched her like this, and she’s thought about the way his coarse fingers would move against her skin each night since.

In her imagination, Sylvain would dig his nails against her skin, marking in red where he’d been. He’d be quick through the foreplay, hands grabbing at the sides of her hips, his kisses frantic and needy. He’d be vocal, too, telling her how much he’s _needed_ _her_ in between love bites across her chest, just below where her shirts covered her skin.

The mere thought sent Ingrid’s hips bucking back against Sylvain’s thighs, looking for friction to meet the damp heat that’s built between her legs.

But the real Sylvain was dreadfully slow. His fingers scarcely moved from her calf to her knee; his breath moved half an inch down her neck at most before coming back behind her ear. Worst, the hand that kept him balanced on the bed, perched on his side, grazed the edge of her ribs, just behind her breast, and he wouldn’t move it more than a flex of a finger.

This was part of the game for him sometimes. To play satisfied with her mere presence, to play lovers that could take things slow. A contrast to the quick trysts of the war, filled with quick fucks by the stables, and paired scouting missions ending with his head in between her thighs and her hand between her teeth to muffle the sounds.

She didn’t mind that he wanted this; and he didn’t mind that she wouldn’t speak frankly about her needs until he’s started to meet them.

Sylvain breathed a satisfied sigh and kissed the side of Ingrid’s cheek before rolling his arms over the top of her hip. His movement had the unfortunate effect of hiking Ingrid’s skirt up, and she felt the cold breeze leave goosebumps on the side of her legs. It was a contrast to the warm twist that was starting to form at the bottom of her gut.

There was always a point where the facade fell. It was just before his hand brushed against her and  _ felt _ how wet she was, just after her underthings were soaked where she could lay bare before him without pretense. She just needed him to press onwards.

Sylvain’s hand drifted from her knee to the inside of her quad, his thumb pulling the soft flesh in towards his palm, and Ingrid forced back the urge to shudder. It was mere inches, between his fingers dragging lazily against the relaxed muscles of her thighs and the crease of her pelvis where she needed him to touch her.

She wondered if asking him now would break the spell, and decided to keep her patience. She’d waited weeks already, and had been expecting to wait days more before his arrival. That he was here now was a surprise and a gift. Ingrid could wait if Sylvain could.

Ingrid gasped slowly as Sylvain dug his fingernails against her leg. The sharp pain was accompanied by his thumb pulling back to dig against the round of her hip bone, his hand almost a claw against the inside of her leg. 

On its own, her stomach flexed to bring her body closer into his grasp, and Sylvain let out the first sound that warned of his longing. It was a deep breath in, breathing in the essence of her, his mouth and nose buried against the side of her neck, nestled just under her jaw.

Ingrid kept her eyes closed and one hand bent and cupping the side of his head; she took a handful of his hair now and tousled his hair till he found another inch to draw closer to her. She needed him closer. There were parts of her that she needed him near. The spot between her legs was one of them, but there was a hollow in her heart that she needed him to reach, too, and he couldn’t do that if he wasn’t  _ closer _ to her than he was now.

Sylvain understood the message clearly. His mouth began to nip playfully at the line of her neck. She felt his chest pull away from her back so that he could curl around her, hip against the base of her spine, lips where her neck met her chest.

His hand drifted further up, too. Sylvain’s always had soft hands for a soldier, but the rough calluses on the creases of his finger joints, built up over years of wielding his lance, pressed against the valley of her hips. 

Just an inch now. Ingrid measured her breath in counts, keeping it as even as she could, and found that Sylvain didn’t move unless her breath did. He would draw away and advance upon Ingrid’s disappointed exhale, and pause again when she evened her breath out. 

Each movement only disoriented the muscles that controlled her core, threatening the careful control Ingrid had been trying to keep over her arousal.

Sylvain would dig with his nails when she was breathless, and leave long scratches when her breath was full to break the staccato of her breathing, and only finally brought her to break when his other palm, the one  _ not _ in between her legs and under her skirts, finally surged forward to roughly grab her breast.

She hadn’t worn a bra, underneath her sweater, and the sensation of Sylvian’s palm against the prickling fabric of the wool took the breath out of her. Sylvain picked the moment to finally let the length of his fingers slide at the now soaked through fabric of her underclothes.

Ingrid kept it together at the first pass, and let herself be ruined by the second.

A tiny moan burst from the bottom of her throat, and Sylvian nudged her head with his cheek so that he could look at her in the eye.

Ingrid was sure that she was red all over, but the look on Sylvain’s face was somehow less embarrassing than she imagined. Joy was written all over him: there was a small, satisfied smile curved his lips, and his soft eyes were wrinkled at the edges just enough to tell Ingrid that he was content to finally be here.

“I need more, Ingrid,” he said, voice low and quiet. “Give me more.”

Ingrid reached out to cup his cheek with her hand and brought his lips against hers, nodding silently in response. His lips captured hers so tenderly that Ingrid thought he needed a moment before moving forward.

Instead, Ingrid felt the scratchy sensation of her underthings being pulled aside and the warmth of Sylvian’s fingers against her folds, stroking slowly, testing the wetness between her legs.

Ingrid sighed against Sylvian’s mouth, releasing a small “mmmm,” and spread her legs till Sylvain’s hands were pressed up against her entrance.

“Slow,” she said, digging her fingers against his scalp and finding a handful of hair to hold onto. “Slowly.”

“Mhm.”

Sylvain’s other hand moved to the top of Ingrid’s chest, just above her heart, as she felt his finger slip inside of her.

She took him all at once. The slow press of his hand made it easy, and Sylvain buried a single finger as deep as he could go before he curled it inside of her, sending waves of heat through Ingrid’s body. 

The next time, he dragged himself out of her with his finger still half curled, building friction against her most sensitive spots. 

The heat rose to Ingrid’s head, because the next time she can barely speak or instruct. Sylvain slipped a second finger in and Ingrid barely noticed, scarce for how  _ full _ she felt, and how carefully Sylvain picked where to press against the inside of her walls, letting his fingertips rub against her while his hot breath tried to keep her attention against the corners of her mouth.

Her climax came without warning: Sylvain’s thumb found the slick surface of her folds and slid up till he was rubbing her clit and that was all it took. Ingrid came with Sylvain’s arm wrapped around her, skirt half hiked up to her hip. Her whines were interspersed with sharp inhales as the waves of heat rose from the depths of her belly, down the length of her legs, and her arms, and through her heart. Ingrid’s body shivered as her heart’s contents poured out over the rest of her, and she came down only as Sylvain’s low voice came into focus, praising her.

“Beautiful Ing, doing that for me. Take a breath. Let me give you another.”

Whatever their arrangement, whatever informal circumstances they needed to create in order to be lovers, it was worth it for this: the way Sylvain’s eyes answered hers with satisfaction. That she was in his arms now, and that he was the only one she would let see her like this. That this was only the start to the coming days of his embrace. That it would be her turn, soon, to see him come apart and back together again.

Let the servants talk tomorrow. Tonight, Ingrid would take her lover in her arms and set aside being Lady Fraldarius for a night. 

She had just a moment to steal another kiss before her breath returned and Sylvain began again.

**Author's Note:**

> if u dont comment i wont post pt2 ;o


End file.
